


White Rose, Silver Needle

by fireflysglow_archivist



Category: Firefly
Genre: F/F, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-04-03
Updated: 2003-04-03
Packaged: 2019-04-29 10:02:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14470263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fireflysglow_archivist/pseuds/fireflysglow_archivist
Summary: Birds do it, bees do it, even the crews of fictional space vessels do it.





	White Rose, Silver Needle

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Firefly’s Glow](https://fanlore.org/wiki/Firefly%27s_Glow), and was moved to the AO3 as part of the Open Doors project in 2018. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are the creator and would like to claim this work, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Firefly's Glow collection profile](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/fireflysglow/profile).

 

White Rose, Silver Needle

## White Rose, Silver Needle

### by Polly Burns

TITLE: White Rose, Silver Needle 

AUTHOR: Polly Burns 

EMAIL: go_rimbaud@hotmail.com 

WEBSITE: http://rednotebook.tripod.com/polly 

SUMMARY: Birds do it, bees do it, even the crews of fictional space vessels do it... 

SPOILER WARNINGS: Not a blessed one. 

RATING: I'm gonna say a hard R, cos there's sex, but it's not exactly filthy. It is, however, of the m/m (and suggested f/f) sort, so if that bothers you, look the other way. Oh, yeah, and Jayne swears. Big shock there. 

DISCLAIMER: Yeah, so, me and this disclaimer walk into a bar... The punch line? The characters in this story were all created by Joss Whedon, who I obviously am not. It's funny cos it's true. NOTES: Hey, look, I wrote a whole story without a single song lyric (written by Tori Amos, or otherwise)! Um, yay? The headings of the sections are all tea names, and I would like to thank Liz for finding them all for me. Thanks, Liz. 

I would also like to thank Lemon Lashes- whoever or whatever they may be- for first writing Wash/Simon. Does it make any sense? Hell, no! But is it pretty? You know it is! The "Filament" series was a big inspiration for the shambling pile of verbage you see before you. Um, yay? 

White Rose, Silver Needle 

white rose 

Longish, thinnish articulated columns of ivory. No, something like elongated spools, not columns- the word "spool" holds the delicacy, portrays it with the accuracy that is warranted. Spools of ivory, articulated, still. His fingers. The unshaking, unyielding coolly curious hands of a surgeon- which is, after all, what Simon is. The sympathy in those fingers- sometimes, when Mal is bleary enough with pain or with drugs, he comes to think of Simon as the embodiment of medicine. It is dehumanizing, to turn people into ideals, into symbols, but sometimes, he can't help himself. If there is one thing that Mal believes in, it is allowing people to keep their humanity. Making Simon out to be nothing more than his profession, than a tool of his profession, well, Mal feels like a hypocrite in doing so. He blushes. He's glad that nobody sees this. 

Today, it's just minor scrapes. The abrasions on his arm look rashy, the stippling of congealed blood along his forearm resembles scattered garnet beads. His skin whines with pain as Simon holds still his arm and sweeps an antiseptic pad across it. The pain is like the sound of a rusty bicycle wheel. It's nothing, really, and Mal knows that there's no reason in the world why he couldn't just tape it up himself, in his room, alone. No reason, save one. 

Hair that is like oiled sable. And eyes to match, rich, unknowably deep irises. Skin that never seems to catch color completely, skin white as wealth, as comfort and opulence. And two hands with fingers like spools carved of ivory. 

Mal's just fooling himself, he knows. He's not stupid, or not nearly so. He doesn't even like men, not in that way, thanks. Not much, anyway. Or not too much. Or only once in a while. Though, this has nothing to do with Simon being a man and not a woman. Gender doesn't enter into it. This is different from anything simple like attraction or infatuation or even love. This is desire, this is something that you can't even breathe too loudly about. Cos it'll dissolve, as surely as salt, or as sugar, for that matter, does in water. And Mal thinks that he wants to keep on feeling this way for a while, yet. Likes the way it feels to fool himself. So he doesn't breathe very loudly at all. 

gunpowder 

Lately, Jayne's been wanting very badly to hit something. Anything. Anything that'll hold still. The other day, when they docked at this speck-of-dirt colony called Pearl-in-Eye (and no wonder it was what it was, with a stupid name like that), a youngish kid asked him if he had any money he could spare. The idea of going up to any stranger, let alone one that looked like Jayne, and asking for anything was ridiculous. Then Jayne thought about it for a second, and came that close to telling the kid that he could name his price so long as Jayne got to take one good swing at him. He wasn't so young, he could probably handle it- maybe it'd sober him up, even. Stop him asking strangers for money. 

After pondering the little question for entirely too long, Jayne shook his head and muttered, Beat it. Which the boy then did. 

He's been thinking about that incident, if you could call it that, a little bit too much these past couple of days. And he's come to the conclusion that he doesn't want to hit just anybody or anything. He wants to hit somebody very specific. Now, if only he could figure out who... 

Mal's been getting on his nerves. Even more stoic and self-righteous and honorable than usual. It's like he's becoming a caricature of himself. Jayne doesn't think this in those exact words, but the sentiment is there. He isn't all that terribly good with words, though he suspects that if he were, he might not want to hit things so often. But it's not right, a man being so good and being so obvious about it- it makes it look like there's something he's trying to cover up. And that makes Jayne nervous, cos, well, he's the resident son-of-a-bitch. They don't need another one. And they really don't need Mal becoming one all of a sudden, cos it's just not his nature. Because, to spite whatever may be on the outside and how irritatingly fake it is starting to seem, Jayne likes to think that Mal is good on the inside, really and truly good. 

And then there's the doctor, who's starting to seem like Mal the Second. Mal Part Two. Son of Mal. Bride of Mal... It's getting hard to dislike him, cos he's so... for lack of a better word, good. He's so obviously devoted to that little sister of his. And though she is a thundering loony and will probably get them all killed in one way or another, Jayne can't really fault him. Having never had anybody to be close to, to be loyal to, the idea of Simon and River is... exotic, almost. It's like watching people from someplace foreign and being completely mystified by them to the point of repulsion but also being kinda jealous, too. Having somebody to love is like taking off your shoes when coming in from outside, or like having your septum pierced. Jayne isn't quite sure why the hell people do it, cos it seems like such a bother, but at the same time, there's a beauty to it. Not that he would ever admit that to anybody else, or even know the correct way to say it. 

It's right weird, being irked by Mal and having this sudden sort-of-respect for Simon. And maybe that's what it is. For somebody who so easily earned himself a rep for being a dumb bastard and having no concept of human feelings, Jayne is strangely sensitive. He's very aware of his world, and something's been done to alter his world. And he sure as shit doesn't care for it. He soon comes to the conclusion that he wants to hit both Mal and the doctor. Repeatedly. 

And, oddly enough, the thought of doing that, thinking about it, doesn't really help matters. Now, he feels sort of sick, like he ate something that was seriously wrong for him. Like that time, with the meat on the stick and the guy swore up and down that it was chicken, and though Jayne had serious doubts, he ate it anyway... What a mistake that had been. It gets worse around the two of them. He wonders if something is catching, and if the doctor's got any kind of medicine for it. On a whim, since he's not doing anything, he makes his way down the Infirmary, noticing how the sick- feeling gradually gets worse. 

"Hey, doctor," he says into the room. He's standing outside, not really comfortable with the thought of going in, just yet. The prospect of possibly getting a shot makes him shy of Simon. 

"Yes?" Simon turns around, he was counting foil-wrapped packages of sterile gauze in the overhead cabinet, pointing to each one, as though assigning it it's number. 

"Uh, d'you know about anything that might, um, be catchin?" He scratches the back of his head. 

"Catching? How do you mean?" 

Jayne sighs. And people think he's dumb. "Y'know, catching," he waves his hands around, "like contagious. In any of the colonies we've been to recently." 

"Well no," Simon places his hands on the counter behind him and leans back against them, "Not that I can think of. There's usually a big to-do when a colony is suffering from an outbreak of something. Why, not feeling well?" 

"I think I got a, a stomach thing. Or somethin." Jayne squints and turns his head to the side, suddenly embarrassed even to be there. 

"Do you want me to examine you?" Simon pushes away from the counter and takes a step toward Jayne. 

They both notice the way that Jayne's eyes widen. "Hold it right there, I don't need to be examined." 

"Okay." Simon takes a step back. Folds his arms over his chest and continues in a less pleasant tone. "Well, do you want to tell me what's wrong, then? Or am I crossing some personal boundary simply by asking?" 

Jayne makes a nasty face and directs his eyes to the ceiling. "No, you can ask." Then he mutters something else that Simon is sure isn't terribly complimentary. This only makes him smile. 

"What's wrong, then?" 

"It's like, ah," he thinks about telling him about the time with the meat on the stick that the guy swore up and down was chicken, but he wouldn't get that. Simon hadn't yet been with them when that had happened. "It's like I ate something bad. I feel kinda like throwing up." 

"How long have you felt this way?" 

"Past couple'a days," Jayne shrugs. 

"Did you eat anything when we were in, oh, what was the name of that place... Pearl-in-the-Hole?" 

"Pearl-in-Eye." 

"Strange. However did they decide to give it that name?" 

"I dunno. I think it's from some kind of local myth. Something about them draining the lake and it being full of pearls, or some blind prophet who had a pearl-eye instead of a glass one... I dunno. It's stupid backwater stuff." 

They are silent for what seems like a very long time. Simon is looking at Jayne, expecting him to speak, and Jayne is suddenly very fascinated by the chromium door of the last cabinet in the row, at the far side of the room. 

Finally, Simon asks, "So did you, eat anything?" 

"Not really. We weren't there all that long." He's still focused on the cabinet door. 

With a little shake of his head, "Drink anything? Water, perhaps?" 

"Na. We bring our own. If it was a water-thing, it'd be comin outta both ends by now." Almost as soon as the words leave his mouth, he regrets them. He feels no better than those hicks who gave their settlement the first name that they pulled out of their collective ass. 

"What do you think it is, then?" Simon asks, already sounding irritated. 

"If I knew what it was, I wouldn't be standing here like a ruttin idiot playing guessing games with you," he snaps. He doesn't know why he snaps at Simon, it just feels right somehow. Or it should. Or- Jayne doesn't know what. 

"Well, if you gave me something more to go on. I'm not a psychic." Simon sighs, "Have you thrown up at all? You mentioned nausea, but has anything actually come up?" 

"Nope, not yet." Jayne doesn't know why he came here, and can't seem to figure how to get out again. This is starting to seem like somebody's notion of hell. 

"So you have chronic nausea with no discernible bacterial or viral origin... Nobody's sick around here, so you didn't get it from one of us... Motion sickness!" Simon exclaims all of a sudden. 

"Motion sickness? How the hell am I going to get motion sickness?" 

"Maybe you've developed vertigo. Maybe, maybe you have the beginnings of an inner ear imbalance..." Simon presses his lips together, which makes him look like somebody's old wife. "Look, why don't you come back in a few days and we'll see if there's anything else to go on. Right now, I can't tell you anything conclusive." 

And that's it. And Jayne's back out in the corridor, feeling kind of dazed. Maybe it's all the talk about throwing up, but he suddenly has to do just that. He runs to his bunk and voids his guts into the shallow, stainless steel pan. 

add flowers to the brocade 

And they're not like his hands at all. They're rough, Simon knows without having to feel them, without even having to examine them closely. The palms, particularly where they melt off into his fingers, are gone sandpaper-like from who knows what sort of labor. Simon wouldn't know, could only imagine. There are scars on the back of Mal's left hand, not surgical scars. Scars, Simon knows. These were made by shrapnel, maybe, they are thicker in the middle, tapering toward the ends. Lazy caterpillar-like scars, raised like brands, slightly pinker than the rest of Mal's skin. Simon doesn't have to ask if the original wounds hurt. Wounds, Simon knows. 

Sometimes, carelessly, Simon will think about what it would be like to take Mal's hand in his two hands, to press the tip of his tongue against each of one of the three scars on the back of Mal's left hand. He barely even knows what he's actually considering, doesn't let himself get so serious in the thought that he actually has to think about his motives for wanting to do this. In his mind, he doesn't have to answer anybody's questions, not even his own. 

River seems to have a few questions, though. Simon is really beginning to find it spooky, the things she's able to do. It's taken him a while longer than everybody else, because, whatever else she is, River is his sister first. It's wrong to be afraid of her. And he really wasn't until she came up behind him one day, one looking-at-Mal's-hands-day, draped herself loosely over his back and softly said, "Pain tastes like salt, and old pain tastes like old salt." She laughed, sounding almost coquettish, "Ask him, if you don't believe me." 

Simon went pale, paler than usual, and turned to face her. "What do you mean?" He knew what she meant, somehow, in some way that defied things like words, but he had to ask anyway. 

"You know, lines." She lifted one shoulder casually. "Lines like writing lines. Letters that the past leaves behind. Small pieces of metal get caught underneath." Again, she shrugged. "Ask the question if you want," then, with a bitter edge to her voice, "he almost wants you to, sometimes." She lowered her eyes, and cupping her hand against the side of her face, whispered into Simon's ear, "And he wonders about the taste of your lines." 

She gave him an unfathomable look and walked away. Once she was gone, Simon, still looking stricken, turned his head back toward the direction in which he had been gazing. This time, Mal was looking right at him. 

"You look like you saw a ghost," Mal remarked. 

"Oh, it's just," he swallowed, "it's just River. She's, she worries me." 

"She worries us all." Simon couldn't tell exactly how Mal meant this to be taken. 

But then, he gave Simon that honest, easy smile, and that made everything better. 

silver needle 

He is watching Mal again, now. It's been three days since River gave him that little scare, and he has to actually physically force himself not to ask her to elaborate on her original statement. He wonders about the taste of your lines- She couldn't mean, no, she didn't mean that at all. Simon is beginning to think that language is something of a toy for her, that she's beyond it now, beyond any real need for it, and it is simply her plaything. She says the words that sound nice to her when they are in her mouth. She didn't mean- 

Simon wonders, even though he knows that it is dangerous to do so. It's not right. Mal has a very straight look to him, in all respects. The taste in your lines. But, then, sometimes, Simon could swear that his looks are being returned, like the other day, when River left and he found Mal staring right at him. It's a coincidence, and that's all it is- 

The whole ship has degenerated into some sort of low-grade altered mental status. Jayne is constantly looking woeful and seasick, giving Simon and Mal alternating glances of helplessness and hostility. Like maybe he thinks that he's developed an allergy to the two of them and that's why he feels so crappy. The helpless looks seem to be contagious, because Wash has developed an equally puzzling tendency to lay his luminous blue eyes on anybody that's in front of him. If he weren't married... Simon catches himself thinking, and then shakes his head as though to actually expel the thought from his cranium. When Mal leaves the room and Simon turns his head to the right, he notices that Wash has turned those skyblue floodlamps on him. Once Simon glances at him, though, he looks back down into his breakfast. 

Kaylee and River are always someplace but where they ought to be, usually together, usually laughing or speaking in sandy whispers. The insane riddle-work that is known as "girl talk". Kaylee is with Inara just as often. She's two-timing my sister, Simon laughs to himself, and then his blood runs cold when he realizes that he could be more right than he thinks. When Kaylee leaves Inara's shuttle, her lips and cheeks are pale red and her hair is prettily tousled. She could just be having her make up done, Simon feebly suggests to himself. Inwardly, he sighs, No, it's true, he leans his back against the wall, she is two-timing my sister. 

The only two who seem immune to this hysteria, or whatever one would call it, are Zoe and the Shepherd. But the latter is a preacher, and the former may just be manifesting different symptoms. She has not, after all, spoken to Wash in days, not in front of anybody else. Maybe she's angry at him for some reason or other and this is why he's taken to looking at the rest of the crew and passengers like they were his Mommy. 

Simon is most certainly not Wash's Mommy, though he can't seem to stop the thought that likes to play and re-play itself inside his head. If only he weren't married... 

jade fire 

The thing that lots of people don't understand about marriage is that it's a constantly evolving creature. It is not in any way static- just because you get that ring on your finger doesn't mean that you don't change. Marriage has its own cycles, as though it conforms to the orbit of its own personal mood; married life shifts and sways in its own rhythm. It's a whole new language built for two. 

Wash doesn't understand marriage, and he is married. He's starting not to understand much of anything. When he and Zoe began to get serious, certain truths were brought to light- they found out that they had more in common than they could have known. And this brought them closer together, in the beginning, but now Wash has to wonder... 

She's with Inara now, and he's surprised that nobody says anything. Not even Jayne, but he seems to be having his own personal extended freak-out. Kaylee keeps on giving Wash sympathetic looks. Perversely, he feels like he would be grateful if she commented on it, because Wash knows that if she did, it would be in the right way. The looks are all that he gets, though, because usually she's attending to the ship. Or with River. That is a whole other world of strangeness. It's not strange that it should happen, because it does happen, but Wash can't quite get his mind around the fact that it's those two. Maybe it's something in the air, that keeps on drawing people off into strange configurations. Mal and Jayne seem to be playing out some drama or other, with Simon on the periphery. 

Simon's a drama unto himself. Wash wonders how the boy ever manages to get any sleep, between expending all that energy watching out for his sister and expending all that energy looking at Mal in that way that ought to be able to burn holes into him. That, on top of actually having a job to do. They all have jobs to do, but nobody seems all that interested in doing them. But Wash shouldn't really say that too loudly, even to himself. He's no better than anybody else. 

They have a Moment in the Infirmary. They've docked, and Mal and Jayne and Zoe are taking care of Business. Latest in the Big Parade of Settlements with Weird Names is this place called Bourbon Flats. Wash goes into the Infirmary, not really knowing what for, looking lost and knowing it. He dawdles by the door and manages some languid banter. His pauses between words are a little bit too long, he knows. 

"Are you all right?" Simon asks, suddenly wondering if there isn't any merit to Jayne's questions about out-breaks on the colonies. Wash doesn't look all that good. 

"Yeah, I'm fine." That doesn't sound terribly convincing. 

Simon comes closer, lays the back of his hand across Wash's forehead. He fidgets from the attention, regressing automatically to his little-boy-self. 

"You feel sort of warm." Concerned, Simon bites his lip. "I'm going to take your temperature." 

"You really don't have to." Though it's absurd to think this, somehow Wash feels like Simon will be able to know exactly what is wrong with him if he sticks that thermometer in his mouth. 

But isn't that what you want? he asks himself, Why else would you come here? I wanted company, he answers himself. Company. Yeah, right. 

Obediently, Wash opens his mouth and lets Simon slip the thermometer under his tongue. He's always hated this, not being able to speak is the worst. It doesn't take long, though. Simon removes the thermometer and looks at, puzzled like. "Well, your temperature is normal." He looks very unsatisfied at this. Again, before he can stop him, Simon presses his hand against Wash's forehead, for longer this time. 

"Have you been feeling nauseous at all?" Simon asks, looking hopeful in that morbid way that doctors often do. 

"Nauseous? No, um, not really." Simon's hand slips from his forehead, and before Wash can be relieved, he has two fingers pressed to his throat. As Simon looks at his watch, Wash looks at Simon. Finds that he is helpless, unable to look away, like Simon is magnetized and his eyes are iron ball-bearings in his head. 

"Hmmm," Simon hums, "Because Jayne was commenting the other day that he's been feeling nauseous recently. He asked me if anything was," his lips slide into a smile, "'catchin'. He seemed to think that he had food poisoning, or something like that, but he couldn't determine just how he might have gotten it." 

Mal-poisoning, more likely, Wash wants to say, but bites his tongue. Literally, bites his tongue, because Simon has turned away and is reaching for a stethoscope. 

"That's really not necessary," Wash says, working hard not to stutter. 

"I'm not going to hurt you," Simon replies, in mock-annoyance. 

"But I, I'm all right..." 

"I just want to make sure." And that is that. Simon doesn't have to tell him to take a deep breath as he pulls up Wash's shirt in the back and gently places the circle of cold metal on his skin. When he breathes out, it almost sounds like he's sighing. 

Simon isn't being at all honest, of course. He's sure that Wash is completely healthy, to spite how haggard he's been looking and that sudden flush. It's cheap and it's probably very unprofessional, but he really just wants to listen to his heart beating, to have an excuse to touch his skin. 

Simon listens to him breathe in and out from behind, and then comes around to Wash's front. Again, he lifts his shirt, but this time, Wash touches his hand, startling him so much that he almost jumps back. Wash is looking at him in an unreadable way, seriously looking at him. Those eyes always look so soft to Simon, their gaze soft as silt, but now there's a sternness to them. Tension seems to have frozen them, so they stand just as they are. 

Finally, Simon says softly, "I just want to listen." 

Feeling bold for God only knows what reason, Wash directs the hand that he's taken prisoner to the place where he knows Simon will be able to feel his heart beating. He doesn't let himself regret it just then. There'll be time to do that later. 

Simon lays his hand flat over Wash's skin, presses softly against him. Plainly, he feels the march of Wash's heartbeats just under the palm of his hand. This is almost surreal. Strangely, he feels overwhelmed, as ladies must when they go into those swoons. Not knowing what else to do, he leans forward, lets his head fall onto Wash's shoulder, hides his face there. It's like all the sound's been sucked out of the room, so it takes Simon a while to notice that they are both breathing heavily. Taken off guard by this, Simon looks up, and that's when Wash kisses him. 

Kissing Wash is certainly different from kissing Kaylee, but Simon thinks that this has more to do with the essential differences in their personalities than because Kaylee is a woman and Wash is a man. In his experience, gender has very little to do with it. Kaylee's kisses were alternately sweet and airy as meringue, and feverish, with surprising depth. Wash kisses him slowly, at first allowing their lips to brush simply and cleanly, and then prolonging their contact, deepening it little by little. He holds one hand to Simon's face as they kiss, and the other keeps Simon's hand fixed over his heart. Kaylee tasted of strawberry lip gloss or sometimes chewing gum. Wash simply tastes like himself. 

Then reality punches Simon in the kidneys. "No, no," he whispers, first against Wash's lips, and then into the cool Infirmary air, "I, we, we shouldn't. You're, you - Zoe!" he exclaims. 

"No, no," Wash shakes his head, "You don't understand about that-" 

Simon starts to say something, but never gets to. Jayne is standing in the doorway, big as life and twice as scary. "Captain says get your ass to the bridge and do your job," sneers Jayne, who's obviously really pleased at having found Wash where and how he found him. As he turns to leave, he looks over his shoulder. "Oh, and your wife's lookin for ya." 

Wash gives Simon a wounded look and leaves. 

water angel 

Kaylee's thinking about women, something that is never compatible with doing one's job. But, sometimes, you can't help these things. You do your thinking when you can. She's thinking about two women, though River is still technically a girl. Kaylee thinks. Nobody is quite sure what River's age is, though the consensus is around sixteen and a half. Kaylee herself is shyly peeking at twenty-one, which is coming up in July, which is both far away and not so far away. 

If River's the girl, then Inara is the woman- Kaylee thinks of herself as being somewhere in between. She can't put either of them out of her mind. Can't decide on a single thing, whether she prefers River's strange mix of vulnerability and steel or Inara's supple elegance. One seems to switch herself around like her self were something she could put on and take off. The other is open, more than open, laid out before the world, ready for anything that anybody could say or do. But there is more to both of them than what they present to the world. Inara is as much a creature of fragility as River is sharp and perceptive. They both seem to hold something of the other. 

River, she kisses softly, sometimes, holds her like she could defend her from anything- even though Kaylee knows that this isn't true. Inara treats her like a painting or one of the baroquely-named teas that they drink afterwards. Inara gives her pleasure as though she were making art with her body, turning Kaylee into something new and exotic and beautiful, changing her with every sweep of her mouth, every brush and press of her fingertips. With Inara, Kaylee makes sounds that she didn't even know existed. It's like trying to decide if you'd like to eat or drink, knowing that you'll never be able to do the other again. Kaylee knows that this is a bit dramatic, but she can't quite help herself from exaggerating thusly. 

And, then, the other day, she saw Zoe descending the stairs near the door that opens into Inara's shuttle. And Zoe looked at her as though they both knew something that nobody else did. And that's when Kaylee realized that maybe Inara couldn't separate business from pleasure, and it wasn't really fair to ask her to, anyway. 

So, Kaylee's thinking about women. River is hers completely, well, in a way she is. In all other ways, she is Simon's, Simon's sister. Maybe that has something to do with it, because she still has great affection for him. Or maybe, she only pursued Simon in the first place because part of her already knew that she had fallen for River, but that part was just taking its time in telling the rest of her. Or maybe- well, it's impossible to say now. Impressions are constantly being edited by the mind, to keep up with what it considers at the present time to be the truth. 

Inara's never going to belong to anybody, which is something that Kaylee admires about her. She has no need to, because she knows that she belongs to herself. Kaylee knows that she herself is a good five to ten years from reaching that point. Right now, she'd like to belong to somebody. 

jasmine pearl 

Simon's thinking about men, in an idle, girlish way that he occasionally allows himself if he feels he's been a very good boy. And of course, he's been a not-so-good boy, but he's treating himself anyhow. Looking disturbingly focused on pictures of gunshot wounds in an old book of his, he thinks of Wash and Mal and even, God help him, Jayne. Wash is most definitely off-limits, which he's damn well known from the beginning, but somehow forgot just long enough to kiss him. Fleetingly, he thinks that he might be in love, but dismisses this with a jerky shake of his head. People don't fall in love so quickly, that's just a myth. He could be in love with Mal- somehow that seems less ridiculous to him than being in love with Wash. Maybe it's because Mal is unattached, or because Mal seems like the type with whom people would fall in love instantaneously. He's honorable and self-defined, and that's sexy. Simon is sometimes very glad that he ended up where he did, cos sure, his life is essentially a mess and he could die any day, but at least he gets to see Mal in various stages of undress on a regular basis. 

The poor air quality must be getting to him, making him slowly go stupid. 

And then, there is Jayne. Jayne's sort of like a doctor who specializes, not in, say, internal medicine or surgery, but in some very specific area or malady. Jayne's the kind of guy you'd go to only if you wanted to get the stuffing fucked out of you. Simon is still in full possession of his stuffing, never quite having found a satisfactory opportunity to be properly fucked. Jayne's more than a little bit unhinged and to spite his ease in combat, sort of clumsy, so Simon wouldn't actually trust him to change a light bulb, let alone... do... other things. 

So, like he's been trying to make a decision about what to have for dinner, Simon comes to the conclusion that he will be infatuated with Mal and only Mal. It's a game, yes? Just a game- no more. 

And no less. 

dragon well 

Dinner's becoming a stranger and stranger affair. Book watches everybody interact, feeling sometimes like he's a de facto referee or perhaps a behavioral researcher. They're all so volatile now, like somebody's wound them up and they're just waiting for a reason, real or imagined, to jump at each other like clockwork toys. 

Jayne, as is expected of him, is truculent almost the point of indecency. Lately, his nastiness has taken on a new color, and he's starting to remind Book of a woman he once knew in his very first parish. Overly fond of malicious rumors, she was, and she often wore an expression of smugness, as though she were bloated with absolutely the worst (or best, in her mind) kind of information and she could barely just keep her mouth closed to dam it up. Jayne has that same smirk now, the look of satisfaction that comes from having the ability to ruin somebody's life. Strangely, everybody seems completely aware of this, perhaps even of what it is that Jayne's got going on in his head, but nobody says a word, not about what he's obviously desperate to say nor about his increasingly unpleasant comments at the dinner table. Book would like to tell him a thing or two, but unless he does any real damage, Book thinks that this would be a mistake. 

And isn't it Mal's job, anyway, to keep Jayne in line? 

Mal's taking a paid vacation, it looks like. When he looks up from his dinner, Book often sees him staring at Simon, and often sees Simon staring right back. Mal looks as though he absolutely wants to throttle Simon... or something. Perhaps he's too angry at Simon, whom nobody expects to do anything but what is right and decent, to worry too much about Jayne, whom everybody expects to say horrible things. Even at the dinner table. Simon, for his part, doesn't seem at all nonplussed at Mal's ostensive ire, almost like he expects it. Or perhaps he is the injured party. River sits between him and Kaylee, looking like a cared for only child. Perhaps she's come to see Kaylee as a mother-figure, though the girl can't be anything more than four years Kaylee's junior. Her hand is laid across Kaylee's lap when she isn't eating, palm up, like a wounded dove. 

Inara is usually absent, and Zoe has begun to forego the evening meal as well. Wash sits next to Mal, sometimes just staring out before him, at the wall behind Simon's head. Perhaps he knows what has caused the animosity between Simon and Mal. 

Book wishes that they could all just get along. That Zoe would show some warmth to her poor husband so that he would stop staring ahead in such a pitiful manner, as though the meaning of life were imprinted on Simon's cufflinks or the wall behind his head. That Simon and Mal would come to some kind of truce so that so that Mal would go back to normal and do something to get Jayne to just shut the fuck up. 

Book looks up to the ceiling. Silently, he says, May the Lord forgive me for my obscenity and absolve me of my sins Amen. 

red water 

Seduction is a difficult thing for people like Mal, who are by nature adverse to art, to anything but the most direct manner of communication. Sometimes, though, sacrifices must be made. 

He and Simon have been staring at each other intensely for a whole week. By now, they're both aware of each other's looks, and neither of them has yet to put a stop to it. Sometimes, he imagines that he can hear Simon's thoughts, but he knows that they are really just his own thoughts, said by his mind in Simon's voice. Either way, they are some pretty good thoughts. 

It's night, everything is still and quiet. The white noise of the ship's functions is lulling, the sonic equivalent of a heavy narcotic. Careful not to step too loudly, Mal makes his way to Simon's bunk. His heart is spinning like a top inside his ribcage. He raps at the door, and Simon opens it. 

"Can I come in?" he asks, suddenly feeling very stupid and hoping that Simon was asleep so that he can simply retreat and remain a man of honor for another day. 

"Yeah, sure." Simon steps aside and Mal notes with some alarm that River is nowhere in sight. Where is she?, he inquires. 

"With Kaylee," Simon says, absolutely nothing behind his voice. He looks at Mal intently and is about to ask him what he wants when Mal hops to it. 

"I was wondering if you could take a look at my shoulder. It's been bothering me lately." 

"You don't think that it's related to food poisoning, do you?" Simon smiles and seems to be having a private laugh at somebody's expense. 

"No, I'm pretty sure it's not. It's an old injury," Mal says as he unbuttons his shirt. 

"From the war?" Mal likes the way Simon says 'war' with a little bit of reverence in his voice. Very few people do that. 

"Yeah," he answers quietly. He pulls aside his sleeve to show Simon the place where he was wounded some seven years ago. A place that hasn't hurt for about seven years. Seduction is a difficult thing... 

Simon handles him gently, looking in that mysterious way that doctors have for some elusive something that he never actually mentions by name. 

"What kind of pain is it?" Simon still has his hands on Mal. May I?, he says more than asks and removes Mal's shirt. He picks up his arm and moves it up and down in a way that makes Mal feel a little bit silly. 

"Um, a dull pain." 

Simon moves his arm forward and back now. "What are you doing that for?" 

"Testing your range of motion," Simon explains, calm as a breeze. "Have you ever noticed any discomfort when in humid climates?" 

"A little bit," Mal fibs, knowing that they just came from a relatively balmy place, which gives him a little extra credibility. Even when putting up a false front, he searches for authenticity. Jesus Christ- 

"I think you might have the beginnings of arthritis," Simon says, "I'm woefully ill-stocked in terms of medicines, so the best advice I can give you is to apply heat to the general area when it bothers you." Which, of course, Mal knew. 

He wishes suddenly that he were more like Jayne, that he could just say, I want to fuck you. But he isn't, he's not like Jayne- thank every God in every Heaven- he's Mal Reynolds and he's a man of action. 

Simon turns around to retrieve Mal's shirt from the edge of his bed, but before he can get his hand on it, Mal grabs his other hand pulls him back, pulls him close and kisses him. Simon kisses back, as Mal knew that he would. That was never the problem, it was just getting there. 

Without a word, they're on Simon's bed, still kissing each other furiously, Simon's delicate hands running over Mal's skin as though he were still examining him- attentive, fascinated. They lose their clothes pretty quickly and now naked, they slow down a bit. Mal's hands and mouth become inquisitive, roaming over Simon's body with the determination and sharp curiosity of soldiers on the march. The military image gives Simon a jab of delight. 

The boy, man, Simon, is just as lovely as any woman Mal's ever known. He's very prettily made, soft and fluid without being feminine in the least. His boy-curves are subtle and leisurely, he's slim in a way that absolutely conforms to everything else about him, his pallor, the richness of his hair and his eyes, the fineness of his bones. He smells like luxury all over. 

And he's surprising. The way he turns, this way and that to give Mal greater access to the geography of his flesh. When they embrace sitting, in the center of his bed, he pauses mid-kiss and then pulls away. Before Mal can do more than look at him askance, he's taken Mal's left hand in his right and brought it up to his mouth. Eyes closed, he flicks his tongue over each of the three scars on the back of Mal's hand. Mal pulls his hand away, covers Simon's mouth with his own and gently pushes him onto his back. 

And then comes channeled-Jayne, a little bit late. "I want to fuck you," Mal breathes, and it seems absolutely right. 

"I, I've never," Simon's eyelids unfold and come down over his eyes, like he were a shy lass, his lashes batting the slightest bit from nerves. 

"We don't have to," Mal whispers, very very glad that he isn't Jayne, who he doesn't think would take no for an answer. 

"No, I want to, just, you'll have to be careful." On 'careful' his eyes open again. "Get up for a second," he murmurs and stands, heading toward what is presumably a medicine cabinet. Turning a pleasing shade of rose, he hands Mal an unopened plastic container with a blue and white label. He can't meet Mal's gaze when their fingers brush. 

He pulls Simon back down, settles on top of him gently. With skill that amazes even him, he manages to get the lid off of the container with his eyes closed, still kissing Simon. And then, to slick his fingers with Vaseline and locate the point at which they are to be inserted, eyes still closed. He's stopped kissing Simon, so that he can hear the sounds that he makes, very soft sighs that aren't much more than very loud breaths. 

Mal lives up to every one of Simon's carefully preconceived notions- he's a gentleman. He enters him slowly, holding his hips steady, stopping every so often to ask if he's all right. Simon could do without the question- it's slightly embarrassing as it restates the fact that he's never done this before. Mal doesn't ask again, partly because he senses Simon's discomfort and partly because he's too wrapped up in this new sound that Simon makes as he eases into him. It's a long, low moan that flutters out of him little by little. 

Once he's completely inside, he kisses Simon, rearranges their bodies a little bit so that they're positioned in a more practical manner. He fucks him slowly, keeping it up for as long as he possibly can, but Simon doesn't come. When he just can't do it anymore, he pulls out, spills onto Simon's surely very expensive sheets. 

"Sorry about that," he says, having not felt so humiliated since he was about fifteen. 

"It's okay," Simon says, and means it. 

Mal's on top of him again, doing his damnedest to make up for the shame done to his sheets, for not having brought him to orgasm earlier. Finally, he does, though, he drinks Simon like he were water, drinks in his hard and jagged sobs, and drinks the little, sweet sparks of pain that he feels as Simon tugs at his hair. 

red robe 

It's been five days, and Simon's getting nervous. He doesn't know what the hell he's waiting for, or what he's expecting, but something should be happening. Shouldn't it? People like Mal don't just screw somebody and then pretend that it never happened. Do they? It occurs to Simon that maybe he's made a great mistake assuming anything about Mal, people like him, and what this means for him. He doesn't sleep well and he's not hungry. The actual absence of hunger fills him up like food normally would. When he bandages Kaylee's arm, where she gashed it on an unfinished metal edge, his hand shakes so much that he has to put down the tape and steady himself. Kaylee only gives him a look of deep sympathy and holds his hand in hers for a moment. If he weren't so desperate for kindness, he'd almost resent her. She doesn't have anything to worry about, she knows where she stands. Sure, River often doesn't have a blessed clue about what is happening all around her, but she doesn't lie and she doesn't avoid people and she absolutely does not pretend that things didn't happened when the actually did. 

Let them be happy, he says to himself, testing the water to see what it'll be like to slip into the role of martyr. He can see an outcome- perhaps psychism runs in his family- and it's not a nice one. 

"So, was he good? I notice you haven't gone back for seconds." 

"What the hell did you just say to me?" Mal turns around and faces Jayne, whose nasty grin flags a bit. 

"I asked you, was he good?" But he can't back down. So he jaggeds up the edge on his voice. 

"And just who might you be talking about?" Mal's giving him this look that could kill a horse. 

"The doctor. Simon." 

"And this is any of your fucking business how, Jayne?" Mal comes closer and Jayne almost backs up involuntarily. Luckily, he stops himself. 

"It's not. But a man's gotta get his thrills somehow. You think he'd spread for me?" 

"Oh, doubtable," Mal shakes his head like he's genuinely aggrieved by this, "And to answer your question, he was good. He was real good. Best I've had, actually, and I was in the army. I'm surprised you didn't hear us in your bunk, we were so loud. I think we may have invented a whole new way to fuck. Is that what you wanted to know, Jayne?" 

Jayne just sort of looks at him for a moment, and then opens his mouth to say something, but he can't, cos Mal's kissing him. 

And this is about half the 'Verse removed from what he and Simon did. It shouldn't even have the same name. 

Somehow they get out of the hallway and to Jayne's door- Mal can't remember a single step of the way, perhaps he had an out of body experience. And there's plenty of time to say No, to change his mind. And Jayne wouldn't like it, but that would be Jayne shit outta luck. Then there's less of a chance to decline, once they've got their clothes off and are standing in the middle of the room, practically devouring each other. 

"Who's on top?" Jayne asks as they move to his bed. 

"Me," says Mal without hesitation. 

It dawns on him that this is probably just a perverse way of teaching Jayne not to mess with him, that he doesn't actually know how he feels about Jayne, though 'homicidal' is sometimes at the top of his list. And he thinks of Simon, but only for second, cos it's almost painful to do so. 

It's not seduction that is difficult for Mal and people like him, it's what comes afterwards. Really, it's making up his mind. 

snow buds 

A week has passed since he and Mal, well, Simon's not sure what to call it now, and Mal and Jayne are a genuine item. It's sick and it's wrong and it shouldn't be allowed, but it's the truth. They don't even have the decency to pretend to hate each other in front of everybody else. Jayne has a strange new look to him. Simon imagines that it's the same look that a cat would have if it had been conned into getting de-clawed and was still blissfully unaware of what this actually meant. Jayne's still Jayne, i.e., a horrible bastard that most people have trouble standing, but he's... changed. He no longer walks around looking like he's hoping that some Reavers will try to board the Serenity so that he can beat somebody to death with impunity. And he gets the worst expression on his face when Mal is around- it's like the one that Book gets when he talks about God. 

Simon's starting to feel like maybe he has food poisoning. 

And he can't hate Mal. Can't even hate Jayne. Cos, aside from being pretty much useless to do so, it's not like he owned the man. He didn't have any claims on Mal. A drawn-out staring contest and some spilt fluids do not a relationship make. It's not like he's a child, he should know these things. 

Kaylee and River are cozier than ever. From an outside perspective, it would be deeply unnerving, but Simon is starting to find the whole thing sweet, in spite of himself. They're both deceptive in their respective appearances. Kaylee seems so simple, so careless in her youth, but River brings out qualities that Simon perhaps never thought could exist in Kaylee. She's become like another sibling for River, and though this may give their relationship a strange, disquieting edge, to Simon, it only seems just. Because, though River is so damned complicated, what she wants and what she needs are simple. She wants and needs to be loved; and though Simon already loves her, there's nothing wrong with having someone else to love her, as well. 

Zoe seems to have filled Kaylee's slot with Inara. Simon wonders how Wash feels about this. After they kissed, Wash had started to tell him something about he and Zoe. Before Jayne had come in and taken him away. Jayne seems to be the assigned ruiner of Simon's possible good times. He decides that he'd like to speak to Wash again, because, if nothing else, Wash's presence is comforting. 

On the way to find Wash, he happens to catch a glimpse of Jayne, at something of a distance. And it's almost like he has 'Mrs. Mal Reynolds' written on him, like a 'kick me' sign he hasn't caught onto just yet. 

Wash is at the bridge, making his dinosaurs converse in stilted dialogue with funny voices. He puts them aside when he notices that Simon is there. 

"Hi," says Simon, forgetting what the hell he wanted to say originally. And when he remembers what he wanted to say to Wash, he realizes that he can't. 

"Hi yourself," Wash replies, as Simon feels himself backslide into the old thought, If only he weren't married... 

"How are you?" It occurs to Simon that their conversation is thus far no better than the one that Wash was voicing for the dinosaurs. 

"I'm all right," he sort of half-sighs, as though he knows exactly to what Simon is referring. He motions for Simon to sit down, if he likes. "How are you?" 

Simon sits. He contemplates telling him exactly how he is, telling Wash about Mal, and now Mal and Jayne. But he only says, "Fine." 

"Look, Simon," Wash says after what seems like years of neither of them speaking, "I'm sorry about what I did... in the Infirmary. I was out of line and I didn't mean to make you feel uncomfortable or anything..." 

"You didn't. I mean, I like you. A lot. I really do. It's just, I don't think that I could ever feel good about getting involved with somebody who was married." 

Wash looks down. He sighs. "Well, if you wanna know the truth, it's starting to be a marriage in name only." 

"What?" 

"I love Zoe. And I know that she loves me. But I'm starting to think that maybe," he casts a helpless look in the direction of his dinosaurs, "it's not meant to be. I mean, it was great when we first were together. This maybe sounds bad, but it was convenient. We understood each other, it was never anything personal. It's not like we were walking out on each other, it was just a change, sometimes. A change can be good, sometimes. And we always came back to each other. Always." His eyes meet Simon's here. "And every time we were away from each other, came back, I loved her more. I felt like I knew something new about her, for having thought about her so much. And I felt like she knew me even better, too." 

"So, wait, you and Zoe cheat on each other, as- And it's a regular occurrence?" 

"It's not cheating," Wash sighs, "It's just, we knew we couldn't always give each other everything that we wanted. It's just not biologically possible. Cos, I mean I can't turn into a woman- no matter how much I sometimes think that I'd like to," he smiles in way that makes Simon wonder if he's kidding or being truly serious, "no more than Zoe can turn into a man. It's an arrangement, and it worked out well for a while, but now I think that she's fallen in love with Inara." 

Simon almost chokes. "Re-really?" 

"Yep. And I think that I'm starting to have feelings for somebody else, too." 

"Who?" Simon doesn't mean for the word to just fly out of him that way, sort of angry-sounding. He just can't help but think that if it's Jayne, he is going to step outside the ship without taking any oxygen along. 

And Wash laughs. "Well, it's you. Wasn't kissing you an obvious enough indication that I liked you? Aren't you doctors supposed to be perceptive types?" 

"Well, I mean, I figured that you, well you know... But, I mean, doesn't Zoe ever get jealous? Don't you?" 

"It's an arrangement," shrugs Wash, "We both realized that maybe nobody else in the world would ever understand, but it's our arrangement, we get it, that's what matters." 

"What if Zoe's not interested in sharing you with me?" 

"I don't see how she could complain about it, seeing as how she's hardly ever around any more," he frowns, "I'm not bitter. Don't think that I'm doing this to try to make her jealous or get back at her or force her away from Inara. I love her, I want her to be happy, whether or not it's with me. But I think that I deserve to be happy, too." 

Simon blinks. "Okay." 

Wash gives him an uncertain look. "Okay, what?" 

"Okay as in, okay, yes, you deserve to be happy." 

It's like something's been extinguished inside of Wash. He lowers his eyes. Closes them, so he doesn't see Simon stand and leave his chair and crouch down in front of him. None of this really registers until Wash feels his hands being taken hold of. 

"Do you think that being with me would make you happy?" Simon trains those disarmingly deep eyes on his face. 

"I'm happy even just knowing you." 

"Well," Simon goes from steady and serious to sort of shy and dreamy with no more than a shifting of his gaze, "why don't you come to my room tonight and see if you'd like to know me better." 

All Wash can give as a reply is a barely audible, "Okay." 

The night moves in seamlessly behind the day. Somehow, even though it is always dark in space, they all seem to have an innate understanding of the way time progresses. Wash can tell six o'clock from five o'clock, seven o'clock from six o'clock, eight o'clock from seven o'clock... and on until it's nearly eleven. He's the last one in the open part of the ship. Everybody else has cleared off to their respective rooms- or to somebody's room, anyway. It's not really worthwhile wondering where everyone is sleeping tonight. They're so predictable, Wash chirps to himself, walking down the corridor to Simon's room. He's aware of every step in a way that's almost painful. 

Simon opens the door, dressed as he was earlier, but without his daytime polish. His tie is missing in action and his shirt's coming untucked, the sleeves are rolled up and enough buttons are undone so that the collar of his undershirt is visible. "Hi," he says, breathless. 

"Hi," says Wash, and waits for the door to hiss shut before he kisses him. Simon tastes like toothpaste, and Wash knows that it's the expensive kind that doesn't have a sandy sort of texture. Wash's been drinking coffee, and mixed with the mint, it gives his mouth that odd, tart taste. Simon's arms are tight around him, pulling him close, holding him that way. He's got one of his hands up the back of Simon's shirt, like Simon did that day when he was listening to Wash's heart. 

He feels Wash's heart now, so clearly that it may as well be his own heart. They are clumsy and disorganized. They pull at clothing, only to abandon it when it's halfway off in favor of touching some other, already-bared stretch of skin, or to kiss, or to press their faces into each other's shoulders and breathe heavily. These are the kinds of fumblings they both decided that they were above long ago, once out of the gate of adolescence. 

It's kind of perfect, though. It's new, like they are. And the glaring awkwardness is something that they have in common, it's a shared weakness- if it's even really a weakness. Simon can't remember the last time he felt so close to somebody- so exposed- but didn't mind it. 

Underneath his clothes, Simon comes to see, Wash is even paler than him. It's not the pallor of somebody who spent long afternoons in climate-controlled rooms, not like Simon's; it's the natural pallor of somebody with very fair skin. Simon is fascinated by the freckles on his shoulders- it's tired and it's trite, but they actually do remind him of constellations. It's actually sort of fitting, Wash being a pilot and all. 

And what he does with Wash isn't really all that different from what happened with Mal, not in any sort of mechanical way- But it is, it's like going from dry land to water, the way that you can just slip in, into that glove-tight aquatic embrace. You never lose yourself, not all the way. Water takes you in, but it doesn't destroy anything. 

That's how Simon feels, for once- taken in but not destroyed. When it's over, he's still Simon and Wash is still Wash. And if this is it, this is it; Simon already knows that if this is the end, he isn't going to feel like dying. Though it's not really his fault, when Mal simply just moved on, that made Simon feel like dying. 

Wash looks at him, eyes big as planets. 

This isn't the end. 

iron goddess of mercy 

The way steam climbs out of the cups of pale, volcanic black is like the way that somebody's long hair will flow upwards when they're underwater- vines coming up for the sun. Lazy, the steam inches out of the two cups sat on Inara's small night table. Steam fondles the rim of each perfectly round cup. 

Zoe was a good soldier. What makes somebody a good soldier isn't just the not-dying- though that is the greater part of it- and it's not simply being able to take orders. It's loyalty, and though that may seem painfully obvious, it must have also been easy to forget. In the war, she saw plenty of her fellows turn tail and jackrabbit over to the other side. And though part of her couldn't exactly blame them for wanting to be on the side that was gonna come out of the fray victorious, another part of her was... furious, really. You play the hand you're dealt- an extended version of the saying is that you stick with the side that you start out on. It's a rigid and compassionless view of things, she knows, but she can't help it. So she just buries that, like she buries a lot of things, beneath the hard-packed soil that is her self. 

What she's doing now, though, it's so like the hated but ultimately understandable actions of those turncoats in the war. But what's her deal? What was she fighting for that suddenly seems to be a lost cause? She turns her head to the right, lets the side of her face rest against the arm folded behind her head. Inara's walking around, gathering things like tea spoons and honey and a small silver dish for the honey, her lower half swathed in that garnet-colored print sarong that she wears when she's not in bed. It's not a modesty-thing, it's a matter of adornment- that deep, dark red is stunning against her skin, which is the color that jasmine flowers turn when they die. Even in her so-called personal time, she's consummately professional. Though, for a Companion, the line between personal and professional is pretty much blasted clean away. 

In the sarong, she reminds Zoe of some kind of mythical beast, women who were fishes or horses or birds from the waist down. Though Zoe has conclusive proof that this is definitely not the case. 

If she's switched sides, then what's she fighting for, now? And how does one define the battlefield? And what happens to the losers? 

In real war, the losers, obviously, are the ones who die- but what happens to- 

To the people who get something taken away from them that isn't quite life but might be just as vital- 

Of course she feels bad, she feels worse than the deserters and traitors should have felt, but something about being with Inara dulls that. Dulls everything so that all the world is turning into steam, becoming sly snakes of water- it's still water, it's just changed its form- 

Tomorrow, she'll tell Wash. 

Inara comes to Zoe, holding one of the teacups in her two hands, just under her breasts. The rim of the cup has been brushed with honey; it catches the light like a living, liquid jewel. 

And tomorrow, she'll- 

Inara says, "Drink your tea." 

#### If you enjoyed this story, please send feedback to Polly Burns


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